


dare you to move (like today never happened)

by laurel_crown



Category: Alice (2009)
Genre: Gen, Interrogation, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurel_crown/pseuds/laurel_crown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hatter is arrested by the Suits, has tea, and ends up with a new job - and a new hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dare you to move (like today never happened)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigerbright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerbright/gifts).



> Title from Dare You To Move, by Switchfoot. Many thanks for the opportunity to write my favourite Hatter, tigerbright - Happy Yuletide!

**33rd of Hakea, 1283**

“Murderers!” 

“Spare the Red Bishop!” 

“Chess before cards!”

Hatter didn’t usually like being in crowds – people were careless, and could knock off his hat. Especially when they were yelling and gesturing at the men guarding the old palace. But those Suits standing so impassively had guns, and when they finally raised them, Hatter was very glad they had lots of targets. 

The noise was incredible, but the bitter smoke was worse – it seemed to carry panic with it into people’s lungs as they breathed it in. Hatter stood still, trying to soothe himself against the spike of terror. He wasn’t too close to the steps, and the Suits had plenty of young, idiotic hotheads to aim-

Ah. He had forgotten that he was friends with the most stubborn of the lot, though they were some of the youngest ones there. Holding on to his battered hat, he pushed through the fleeing bodies to where Lory was still standing.

Hatter grabbed his arm. “Come on, Lory, let’s-”

“Look.”

Hatter was puzzled enough to obey. It didn’t take long to spot him, lurking behind the head Suit currently shouting at some other demonstrators. Hatter could feel his eyes widening so much that the carefully smudged liner nearly cracked. “But that’s …”

“Marchie,” Lory finished grimly. 

Hatter watched as March glanced their way and then started tossing a knife in one hand. He’d never really liked the guy – there was something _off_ about March that set his teeth on edge. But he’d never thought their knife-toting comrade would go this far. “Working for the Suits?” Hatter muttered.

“The hell are you _doing_ , Marchie?” Lory shouted, loud in the sudden quiet of the near-empty square.

At his name, March looked at them sharply, flicking his wrist back as if to throw the knife. Though they were several yards apart, Hatter flinched back a step, hating himself as March smirked at him. The head Suit said something, and March turned his head without breaking eye contact.

“I don’t have friends,” March said clearly.

That _definitely_ sounded like a cue to leave. Hatter tightened his grip on Lory’s arm and ran for it. The Suit’s gun thundered, Lory cried out and Hatter swore, but his right arm easily held up Lory as he stumbled. Then they were sprinting round the corner and into the Caucus race of the streets. Life was set to get even more interesting, now that the Red Bishop was marked for death – soon the Queen of Hearts would enjoy an undisputed rule.

* * *

**8th of Mazus, 1285**

Number Ten tried not to sigh as he followed the Spade down the corridors. He really shouldn’t be surprised that they needed help interrogating a possible member of the Resistance, even if it was just some unruly junkie. Spades had no imagination. Now the Clubs, they had to figure out how to carry out the Queen’s demands within her desired timeframe – that required finesse. All the Spades had to do was point and squeeze.

Not that he’d ever say that to their faces. They _were_ good shots. Besides, the Queen had promised to locate some professional information extractors once the tea business was properly underway.

The Spade halted, opened a door and waved Number Ten through. He stepped inside and examined the prisoner carefully – bruised, surprisingly young, and rigid from the other Spade’s electric rod. With his shaky addict’s fingers and sunken eyes, he hardly looked like a dangerous rebel. It did not escape Number Ten’s notice, however, that the youth’s right arm was tied particularly securely to the chair, and had dried blood on the knuckles.

Number Ten cleared his throat. “I understand you’re having difficulty admitting you’re part of the Resistance?”

“Unh …” The youth made a show of looking him up and down, and raised his eyebrows at Number Ten’s attire. “Yeah. Raised to be truthful, and all that.”

Number Ten pushed aside his thoughts on the impracticality of leather and focused. The young man with wild eyes and wilder hair must have recovered from his tea overdose by now. If he wasn’t being buoyed above the pain by residue Excitement – or whatever he had taken – then obviously a new approach was needed.

What was it that Walrus had said? You pulled different levers and saw what vapours came out. 

Alright, then. Number Ten sat down next to the Spade and smiled at the youth across the clear table, tilting his head for extra condescension. “A spot of teenaged rebellion is perfectly normal. But you grew up with the war, yes? I’d have thought you would appreciate the peace and stability a proper ruler brings.”

“Stability?” The youth snickered. “I wouldn’t call it that.” The Spade lifted the rod, and he jerked away from it, gabbling. “But no one listens to me! I was never close friends with Logic.” He hesitated, as if to gauge their reaction, and added slowly, “Though I _believe_ some people think the wrong ruler won.” The youth bit his lip like he’d just revealed a deadly secret.

Number Ten restrained the Spade with a hand, and laughed. “The chess court was in decline for decades, boy. Do you really think you’d be better off under the Red King than our Queen?”

The youth seemed thrown by the question – he blinked a few times, his face losing all traces of snark. “I don’t know,” he said at last, quietly. “How could I?”

Number Ten was inclined to believe him, which made the whole valuable-Resistance-captive scenario a little shakier. But he couldn’t falter now – the youth was off-balance, and he had to press his advantage. Lay his card on the table, so to speak. “If you’re so unsure, why were you at the execution riots?”

The youth looked up sharply, eyes wide and alarmed. “How did you …?” He glanced at the rod, and swallowed. “Shit. Alright, it _looks_ bad, but I wasn’t … _serious_ , it was just a way to pass the time!”

Number Ten felt this was a poor answer, and gestured for the Spade to use his electric rod. He was mildly astonished by the youth’s vocal range.

“Honest!” the youth gasped out. “Those riots were two years ago – tea didn’t even exist then! There was precious little to do with Wonderland so bloody ‘stable’!”

Risk his life protesting a cause he didn’t really believe in, because he was _bored?_ “I don’t believe you.” Number Ten stood up and walked to the door.

Behind him, he heard the youth mutter, “There’s a shock.”

Number Ten ignored his comment and opened the door. “Go and get a bottle of that emotional baggage from the Tea Room, will you?”

The Spade stared at him as if he’d recited poetry. “What?”

“The waste from the extraction – the technicians will know, idiot! Just fetch some!”

The Spade ran off, and Number Ten stood watching him for a moment, wrestling with his irritation. Then he put his calmest smile in place, shut the door and turned around. 

“I’ve just ordered some very _special_ tea for you.” He was gratified to see fear spark in the youth’s murky eyes, his tiny flinch. Maybe Number Ten had learned something useful from attending the Queen, after all. He made sure he was settled comfortably before adding cheerfully, “Won’t be long.”

The youth grew steadily twitchier under his gaze, until Number Ten found himself wondering if the anticipation alone would get him to talk. When he did speak, though, it was not to say anything helpful.

“I’m telling the truth, you know,” the youth blurted, unable to keep the panicked plea from his voice as it switched octaves. 

Number Ten covered his disappointment by humming and adjusting his robes. “We’ll see.”

* * *

Hatter knew it was pointless to struggle – it wasn’t like he could spit out a single drop of liquid. And most teas he’d taken had kicked in the moment they spread over his tongue. But none of those teas had been held over him in a syringe while his mouth was forced open, and they certainly hadn’t _changed colour_. Even the damn Spade gripping his jaw had seemed surprised when it arrived.

The tea dropped – Hatter felt his eyes strain to follow its progress – and landed near the back of his throat. He choked in shock, and nearly bit his tongue when the Spade shut his mouth again. Then the tea hit him like a fist to the gut, only his heart ached too. He moaned and bent over, and the Spade released him.

Sadness, horror, resignation, anger, confusion, hopelessness … it was pointless trying to label them all. The emotions jumbled together into an awful kaleidoscope that wrenched the air from his lungs, the tears from his eyes. 

A blurry figure was standing in front of him, saying something and waving floppy black arms in his face. A faint, familiar voice crawled out of the storm and told him that it might be a good idea to listen. But as Hatter focused on the voice and regained his sense of self, the tea followed. It hooked onto those memories that reflected the tea’s composition, and dragged them forward to trip off his tongue.

“Good … good-for-nothing.” The words echoed oddly in his ears – they weren’t his. Then he remembered who they did belong to, and instantly wished he could push that knowledge away again. “No! Don’t say that, Ma …”

“Hey!” Someone snapped their fingers in his face, which startled Hatter enough to focus on the outside world again. It was the man with the funny headdress – the Club, that was it. “You’re part of the Resistance, aren’t you, boy?”

Hatter frowned. The Club’s tone was encouraging, but for some reason the words made him suspicious. And he was tied to a chair, which was hardly agreeable. He caught sight of the other person in the room, and narrowed his eyes. “He tied me up.”

The Club looked taken aback. “Pardon?”

“He tied me up, and I don’t like it!” Hatter was vaguely certain he wasn’t normally this petulant, but the inner voice approved, so he went on. “You’re just as mean as he is, I won’t talk to you!”

The Club looked at him carefully, and Hatter tried very hard to keep pouting and ignore the tea as the emotions steadily flowed back. Finally the Club sighed and leaned forward to untie his left hand. This was a good thing, yes, _good_ , but his throat was closing up again, and when his hand was free Hatter had to knuckle more tears from his eyes.

“Are you part of the Resistance?” the Club asked.

Hatter knew he’d heard that question a lot today. “No!” He was sick of this, sick of them not believing he was the useless emotional wreck of a junkie that everyone else knew him to be. “The Resistance didn’t want me, I’m a worthless failure, haven’t you heard? The tea made it not matter, but …”

But now they’d given him some tea that amplified all his self-disgust rather than taking it away. Hatter couldn’t remember how those sweet bursts of emotion had felt, not with this mess inside him. What if he was doomed never to feel Happiness again, nor Excitement, not even Contentment? Horror rose at the thought.

As if sharpened by this, the tea resolved from a mishmash of feelings into the emotions of separate Oyster memories – the sharp terror of capture, and the creeping dread of their unknown futures. Probably all kept at bay with dope, individually, but now it was concentrated, and so very similar to Hatter’s own life-long fears. They bounced off each other, expanding and mingling until his head was bursting and Hatter screamed for release.

*

At some point, the tea subsided enough for thoughts to form again. Hatter wasn’t convinced the thoughts were of particularly good quality, but it was nice to have them anyway. He could even make observations, like how pretty the man’s necklace looked when it caught the light.

The other man leaned forward. “I think he’s saying ‘twinkle’.”

“Huh.” The twinkly-and-black man grunted. “Perhaps it was a mistake, giving him the baggage like it was tea …”

“Tea!” Hatter liked that word. Probably. “It’s always tea time! Tea tray … in the sky …” He frowned – that was no good, how could he reach it there?

“It’s no use,” Twinkly was saying. “He’s gone mad.”

Hatter disagreed. “We’re all mad here,” he snapped, abruptly angry, and felt the tea boiling through his mind again. Frightened, he searched for a distraction, and found himself giggling at Twinkly’s affronted expression.

“Give him some of the Serenity that Five brought.” That was Not-Twinkly. “Might calm him into being lucid again.”

“Is that what it is?” Twinkly held up a bottle and peered at it. “It’s so pale.”

“Diluted in water. You take a couple of swallows, rather than a drop at a time. Makes it more satisfying.”

“And easier to disguise. Very well.” Twinkly stood and came around the table. “Open up, kid, I’ve got something that’ll make you feel better.”

Hatter clapped his hand over his mouth and glared. No way was he drinking something from this guy again! This … Suit. Yes, a Club – why did he keep forgetting things today?

“Look.” The Club uncapped the bottle, stuck his finger inside and licked it. “Ah. Just normal Serenity, I promise.”

Hatter lowered his hand, warily. If the Club had drunk some …

Before he could decide, the Club tilted his chin back and his mouth fell open. Then the liquid was gushing inside, and Hatter had to swallow or drown. One, two, three-

And it all vanished away, softly and silently. No turmoil threatened to engulf him, no ragged panic that he’d never be sane – at least, sane as he had been – again. Even his aching torso was less troubling. Hatter felt utterly peaceful, and smiled lazily at the Suits in front of him. “That’s _good_ ,” he told them, and hiccupped.

The Spade looked unimpressed, but the Club smiled back as he sat down. “I’m glad to hear it.” He leaned his elbows on the table, twining his fingers together. “So – you’re really not part of the Resistance?”

Hatter looked at him patiently – the man was obviously slow. “ _No_.” He enunciated the word clearly. “Even if they did let me in, it would be so _stressful_ , you know?” Hatter started to make a gesture with his left hand, but forgot what it was halfway through. “Not great tea-drinkers, I hear. Dreadful waste. All you need is the right tea, and then everything is … perfect.”

The Club did not respond to his eloquent speech, but addressed the Spade instead. “Why did that Mad March fellow say he was a rebel then?”

“What?” Hatter could feel the remark disturbing the soft cloud of Serenity he floated on. “ _March_ told you I was in the Resistance?”

“Yes,” answered the Club. “He said it was right up your alley.”

“’Course he would.” Something was rising up under the calm – his next words bubbled to the surface and came out loudly. “Betrayed us once, why not this? Psycho bastard …” Hatter broke off, clutching his head as the bad tea crested and clashed spectacularly with the Serenity.

It was like a Knight joust was happening inside his mind, with external emotions as the fighters and his own thoughts caught up in the melee. He dimly heard the Suits talking about doses of tea and countermeasures, but then Hatter noticed something even more alarming than the raging emotions – there was _too much hair_ underneath his fingers.

“Where’s my hat?” The Suits fell silent, and Hatter tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t stir up the storm in his head and gut. “What have you mome raths done with my fucking _hat?_ ”

From the look on the Club’s face, he hadn’t been very successful in keeping his voice down. The Club coughed, and turned to the Spade. “Well?”

“Uh …” The Spade seemed uncomfortable. “He didn’t … come with one. Must have been lost in the arrest.”

Hatter heard something crack, in the vicinity of his right hand. He didn’t look – he was too busy keeping his fury low enough so he could think as well. _Breathe, Hatter_ , a memory of Lory’s voice told him.

He did see the panic on the Spade’s face as he extended a peace offering. “We’ll get you a new one!”

Hatter decided not to dignify this with an answer, but merely raised his eyebrows. As if a Suit would have any taste in hats.

“And a new job to go with it,” the Club added.

_That_ got his attention. “What?” Hatter squawked, and winced inwardly. His voice was meant to have settled by now, he was sure. 

The Club leaned forward like he was offering some black market deal. “You liked that tea you just drank, kid? It’s called Serenity – brand new, and there’s lots of it. We’ve just refined the process so there’s no waste produced, only tea. So much tea we can base the new economy on it!”

Hatter did his best to look as if this last statement impressed him. He hadn’t really heard it over the sound of _more tea_ clamouring through what free space was left in his head.

“Now _you_ , dear boy,” the Club continued, “you are going to join the Resistance, just like you’ve always wanted. All you have to do is tell us what they’re up to every so often, and you’ll have all the tea you can drink. You’ll taste the first batches of the latest emotions! What do you say?”

Hatter was sorely tempted to say yes – the word trembled on his tongue, bolstered by years of tea-highs and dreams of being part of something bigger than himself. This way he could get both! But that familiar little voice was pulling back, chanting about integrity and traitor’s deaths and …

And Hatter tried to listen, really, but it was so hard to hear over the chaos of the conflicting teas. If only his head would leave off and _shut up_ so he could _think_ -

A sharp splinter suddenly shifted in his right hand, and the unexpected jolt of pain cleared his mind – leaving a plan in its wake.

Hatter met the Club’s gaze. “I have a better idea.” And he’d spit it out quick before they stopped him. “The Resistance wouldn’t have me before, you really think they’ll take me in now? Arrested, then mysteriously freed and stinking of Suits? No. If they were that stupid you’d already have a spy in there.”

The Club’s mouth tightened, while the Spade glared and reached for the electric rod. Hatter jerked his hand up, desperately willing his voice to behave and hold steady in one octave. 

“What you need is someone to sell the tea.” He scraped up all the confidence he could find and poured it into his smile. “Keep the masses happy, yeah? I can help with that. I’m good with people.”

He paused to check his progress. The Suits looked sceptical, but less like they were about to hit him. Hatter took this as a good sign.

“Why do you think I’m called Hatter? Family of shopkeepers, me.” It was practically true when he phrased it like that. 

“We already have someone,” said the Club, but he sounded thoughtful.

“A Suit?” Hatter shook his head and tutted. “That won’t work. You need one of their own handing out the quick fix – keeps you lot separate.”

The Spade scowled at him. “He’s not a Suit.”

“He’s not really a people person, either,” the Club muttered. “A partnership could work.” 

“What?”

“He’s very … laid back. Won’t touch the tea, won’t get any bright ideas. But the customers might appreciate having someone else around who’s more, uh …”

“Energetic?” Hatter suggested brightly. He watched the Club’s eyes stray to his right hand, and kept his smile as non-threatening as possible.

The Spade, it seemed, was not buying it. “You’re going to trust this urchin with the Tea House?”

Hatter gaped indignantly. “Urchin?”

“At least he won’t fall asleep halfway through the bartering!” the Club snapped, opening the door. “Come and untie him,” he told the Spade outside. “We’re going to the Throne Room.”

*

The almost-whispered conversation between the Club and the Spade who’d questioned him made for quite interesting eavesdropping. At the very least, it distracted Hatter from his right hand, which had started stinging once he’d dug the splinters out of it. The internal tea battle had finally subsided, and was now barely lapping at the edges of conscious thought.

“I can’t believe you’re considering his offer,” the Spade was saying, as they walked through a maze of corridors. “Are you really just going to march up to the Queen and tell her we want to hire this lunatic?”

“Of course not, Eight, she doesn’t even know about him. The King does – I’ll try to just tell him, privately. Then _he_ can explain it to the Queen.”

So even the Suits were afraid of their ruthless Queen. Hatter hadn’t realised he’d need to talk the royal family round as well – he didn’t even have his hat, how could he possibly win them over? How long would he last before the Queen ordered his head-

Hatter tackled that thought, clamping down on his fear before it upset the teas’ newfound equilibrium. He couldn’t help his steps faltering, though, which made the second Spade shove him forward. If the Spade hadn’t been supporting him as well as gripping his right wrist, he would have fallen.

Hatter found his balance in time to look up when someone came hurrying around the corner, nearly bumping into the Club. Young, tall, blond – bloody hell, it was the _Prince_.

“What in Wonderland is this?” The Prince of Hearts was flushed, but managed to produce a look of regal disdain for the dishevelled Hatter.

“Our latest employee, your Highness,” said the Club, bowing.

The Prince examined Hatter in a way that indicated his distrust in their recruitment methods. “At least clean him up before you present him,” he said finally. “In her current mood, if you take him in looking like a Jabberwock’s chew toy she might just execute the lot of you.”

And he strode off, leaving the Suits looking for handkerchiefs and Hatter feeling small and stupid and scare- no, he was _angry_. What did that pretty-boy Jack Heart know, anyway? Just because he looked like trash didn’t mean he wasn’t some seasoned Resistance fighter – oh.

Now _there_ was an idea. Since the Suits had been so very certain he was part of the Resistance, shouldn’t he live up to their expectations, like a model employee? As for the Resistance people … well, surely he’d been through more than enough to qualify for a place now. And soon he’d hold the monetary system in his hands – how could they refuse him?

The Club threw a cloth in Hatter’s face and walked away, while the Spades flanked him. Hatter absently scrubbed at his face and hands, still thinking.

He’d have to wait a few months, at least, before they eased the watchdogs off his back. He could enjoy the merchandise in the meantime, and learn how to bargain like a shopkeeper. Then, though – then he could play the Suits at their own game.

Someone stopped in front of him, and it took Hatter a moment to realise it was the Club again, brushing off something in his hands. 

“What’s that?” one of the Spades asked.

“A hat.” The Club tossed it to Hatter. “Recently separated from its previous owner, once his head had been separated from his body …”

The Spades tittered, but Hatter was barely listening. It was dirty, squashed, possibly even bloodstained – but it was a hat nonetheless. Reverently, he put it on, and felt whole again at last.

Hatter let the corner of his mouth curl in a tiny smirk, and lifted his chin. Now that he was properly dressed, he felt strong enough to face the Queen herself, no matter his resemblance to a monster’s toy. He could certainly convince the Hearts he was worth using properly, not being chewed up and thrown away.

He’d always been a good dancer – why search for safe ground that wasn’t there when you could choose your own knife’s edge to do it on?


End file.
